


Harlequin

by gerardwaymustdle



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Harley takes a lot of baths, Implied Sexual Content, Joker watching Harley through secret cameras, The Joker really likes watching her, secret cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerardwaymustdle/pseuds/gerardwaymustdle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her list of sounds was different to his. He liked the crunch of crushing bones, the crackle of fresh bed linen, the moaning of young girls, the dripping of a tap and the pop and fizz of a freshly opened champagne bottles. She thought herself more refined, really - she liked the click of her heels against marble tiles, the soft pop of her lipstick cap, the crackle of a piece of paper, the groan of an old book having its spine cracked and the sound of a sleeping child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harlequin

**Author's Note:**

> Not based at all on Suicide Squad, but using their version of Harley and the Joker. Enjoy!

Her list of sounds was different to his. He liked the crunch of crushing bones, the crackle of fresh bed linen, the moaning of young girls, the dripping of a tap and the pop and fizz of a freshly opened champagne bottles. She thought herself more refined, really - she liked the click of her heels against marble tiles, the soft pop of her lipstick cap, the crackle of a piece of paper, the groan of an old book having its spine cracked and the sound of a sleeping child. She liked the rustle of the silk binding her legs when she danced for him, the whistling of the winds through the open balcony doors at three in the morning, the soft grunts he made in the rare times that he slept, his fingers gripping her tight throughout the night. He enjoyed the sound of snorting cocaine, the whistle of a bullet as it flew through the air, the smack of her bat against whoever disagreed with her, the solid thump of bodies hitting the floor, the cries of his enemies, the taunting from silver teeth, and the slow buzz of the tattoo gun whilst she was sat on him. She loved the whir of an espresso machine, the splash of water spilling out the bathtub, the fizz of a bath bomb by her toes, a cold glass of something sharp and bubbly and her lover's chest against her back.

He liked the smell of her perfume, overwhelming for many but perfect for him: the barely metallic scent of the blood from a gunshot wound, the musk of Harley Quinn whenever he chose to lay between her legs. The fragrance of early morning coffee, or late night red wine - only whiskey when he was talking business, poured by his already drunken doll, splashed over the table and lapped up by an eager tongue, always willing to play. He would watch her drag a finger through it, and suck on it for too long to not be considered teasing, blue eyes never leaving his hard stare. She wasn't one to be intimidated by a rasping laugh, cold smile and a tattoo proclaiming "DAMAGED".

She liked the scent of cologne and freshly washed linen, sharp citrus soaps, the acrid smell of his hair, the roses that he bought her once a week, a deep red to match the colour of the wine she'd pour that night. She liked the taste of the mint on his breath first thing in the morning, meddling with a hint of something metallic from his teeth, and the saltiness of the sweat on his skin when she licked his cheek. She liked the waxiness of the lipstick that he wore, the gel in his hair and the kohl around his eyes.

Really, she just liked him.

 

*~*

 

He found it astounding, really. Found her astounding. She was his favourite toy, his porcelain doll, and he revelled in finding new ways to twist and bend her, new ways to  _ break _ her.

Yet, sometimes, he just liked to watch her. He watched her when she didn't know, and when she did - he liked the different ways she acted around him and around herself. The way she'd rub herself down with rose gold elixir, listening to Mozart when she thought he was away on business, the way she'd dance, getting lost in the music, sheer dressing gown clinging to the damp spots on her skin after her long baths. He was never far away, never too busy to watch his pretty little pumpkin burning candles and reading on the balcony, fine literature that she supposed he didn't know existed. And when she wasn't around him, she was calm, she was an unlit match, a slow moving stream, a soft candle flame, lambent in the dying light of the evening. She was the scent of vanilla, the taste of bubblegum, the feeling of a cashmere blanket against bare skin.

When she was with him, she was fire. She was wood cracking in the heat, she was wildfire - she darted from one place to another, restless, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. He watched her run up walls in stilettos, shooting enemies with the precision of an assassin, frantic, dangerous,  _ crazy. _ _ "The fire in my loins, the itch in my crotch, the one, the only, the infamous," _ was the way he had introduced her, as she sparkled in the low light -  _ burned _ , using the energy around her to provide an indestructible and beautiful light to anyone who dared watch her, forced everyone's attention to herself, to her artificially pale skin, the painted red smile to match her lover's. When she was with him, she was sour, acrid - she left one with a craving for sweetness, sugar, candy - except him. He longed for the taste that others shied from, the acidic bubblegum meddling with the whiskey still left on his tongue, or with a hint of something green that he loved to drink, his doll’s concoction, something bitter, something acrid, and something that made his lips pucker with the sweetness. If she was cashmere when she alone, she was sandpaper with him; rough, abrasive, aggressive. 

He pretended that he didn’t know that she was different alone, but he craved seeing her as a little more -  _ Harleen Quinzel. _ For once in his life, he craved the ordinary, he craved watching her paint her toenails a pale pink, watching her moving around in the lingerie he’d bought her for her nineteenth birthday, that, at twenty-one, still fit her as flawlessly as it did the day she first wore it. He craved watching her, so calm, drinking red wine amongst silk sheets, no creases of concentration in her face, no stress, nothing except pure content. He craved watching her laugh as she slipped his heavy coat over her bare shoulders, the way she handled the velvet of his gloves when she thought no one was looking. He found himself leaving the house just so the cameras would capture her true nature, like a sick freak watching an animal perform tricks in a cage. He left her gifts, things to find, lingerie, roses, guns, vibrators - anything and everything to put that smile on his pet’s face that he felt a desire, an ache in his gut, to keep there.

But yet, classically, he missed the point. He missed why she’d spend hours tending to her roses, why she took time to oil her body after a bath, why she dressed in the clothes he bought her, and his - why she wandered around the Headquarters in just lingerie and an open, deep red silk shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off her tattoos. He missed that she wore them because they reminded her of him, that his shirts smelled his like scent, a hint of cologne, musk and something more sour. The way she dolled herself up whenever he was due to be home, the way she looked like something from his dreams.

She was Harley Quinn, she was the Clown Princess of Crime, she was the Queen of Gotham - and she was in love with her man, her Joker, her Daddy, her Mista J, _her_ _Puddin’._

And, what he crucially didn’t realise, was that all the gifts, all the roses and chocolates and scented lotions and guns and sex toys, would never add up to the feeling, for her, of lying against her Puddin’s chest, his arms holding her tight, never allowing her to move. The rush that she got when he went out his way to show her off, the possessiveness in his eyes when she dared flirt with other men, the way that he’d save her from  _ anything _ \- anything.

 

*~*

 

“Puddin’?” She whispered, early morning sun beginning to leak through the smog of the city, the Joker Gas, the pollution, the danger that she adored. It was four, maybe five in the morning if she was lucky, and she couldn’t honestly admit that she was expecting him to answer her. The only reason she knew he was there was the pair of hands around his waist, the lips on the back of neck, the eyelashes against her cheek.

“Harley girl.” He replied, voice low, lower than usual, thick and rough with the sleep that contaminated them both still, the same breathlessness as after a long night with his doll. 

She took a deep breath, mainly to feel the callouses on his fingers slide across her stomach, the way he settled more heavily against her. “I love you.” She whispered, rolling over until she was laid on top of him, a feather against his muscles, soft, beautiful, making his mouth split into a wide red grin.

“Love you too, Dollface.” He murmured, pressing his lips to hers, vanilla, bubblegum, alcohol and acid melding into something undeniably royal, something undeniably Gotham, something undeniably beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> This was pretty much some vague drabble that I wrote in two days, but I've been obsessed with these two since I watched the film, and had to write something with them in. Make sure to leave a comment!


End file.
